


Two Men And A Little Lady

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Dab Of Pining, Awkward Sherlock Is Awkward, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Fudging With Timelines, M/M, Parentlock, Post return, Resolved Though, Smut, Tiny bit angsty, Translation From A Personal Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4214451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having been forced to take his daughter and go off the grid, John receives a not completely unexpected visitor with pressing news. What happened after that was out of his hands. Then again, it seems it always was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something I wrote to help myself feel better. I'll add tags as it progresses. Shouldn't be more than 3 or 4 chapters but... you know how it goes...

 

 

_She was obviously terrified, obviously in danger, when he saw she'd broken in to 221B where he'd gone after he finally admitted to himself and her, his true feelings for the late, great Sherlock Holmes. It had been extremely amicable, Mary actually the one to bring it to light in a way that he could understand and deal with. Of course he would continue to look after her and Baby Willa. She'd always have a job at his now private office in the surgery. But she was scared to death. It was all in her wide, blue eyes, her trembling, and a hundred other more subtle clues, the reading of he picked up from his dead best friend. Every beautiful memory sliced viciously into his heart with both pleasure and pain, like a perfect rosebud with extra long, sharp thorns._

_And she was sorry, so sorry it had to come to this. She just couldn't. She just couldn't do it. Then she shoved the squalling bundle into his arms and with a final, lingering kiss and an 'I love you' for each of them, rushed toward the kitchen window into which she'd broken._

_"Run!" she'd whispered harshly. "I'll draw them as far away as possible. You run, John Watson. Save your baby and run! Save your baby. Your baby..."_

He bolted awake, alone in his bed and annoyed somewhere in the back of his mind at the slight relief of having nightmares about something other than his time in the war for a change. Mostly he was on high alert. Someone was banging on the door of his extremely secluded cabin, sat on an island off the coast of Scotland, on which he and his little daughter were the only human residents. 

He was concerned that he was only mildly surprised at seeing Mycroft Holmes when he opened the door. As ever, the man's three-piece suit was impeccable, down to a gold watch, its chain a gleaming garland on his waistcoat, flowing into the heather grey pocket. He'd actually been tapping at the door with the tip of the umbrella he was forever toting around like a bloody security blanket.

 

"You're a difficult man to find, doctor Watson." He brushed a bit of unseen dirt off of his lapel with an imperious expression.

 

 

   

"I'll take that as a compliment," John replied in a near mumble.

   

"You should. Even my little brother has only ever managed six months. You've been off the grid for over eighteen." John bit back a chuckle. Sherlock was never found unless he allowed it, probably needing Mycroft's resources. The mere mention of him, however, weighed heavily in John's chest. It had actually been some time since he'd heard the name mentioned aloud by anyone in the same room but him, avoiding the news as much as he was able. Flashes of luxuriously curled black hair and pale ever-changing eyes ran rapidly through his mind before they were captured and stuffed back into their room of John's own rendition of a Mind Palace, locked securely away once more. It was actually more of a military facility with spartan barracks and many high clearance areas.

   

"Yes, well, if Sherlock has taught me anything, it was how to hide from you."

   

"Indeed." Mycroft stood patiently, seeming indifferent to the chill wind coming off the water a few yards away on the other side of the fence he'd built around the little house, fitted with well-hidden security cameras. "Also lack of manners." That infuriated John.

   

"Really?  _I_  lack manners? How about showing up where you know for a fact you're not wanted and not getting to the point?"

   

"Touché." But Mycroft continued to stand where he was for a few more long moments.

   

"So... what the fuck do you want?"

   

"Firstly for you to unhand that gun you have in the back of your waistband. Contrary to popular belief, I am not a danger to you."

   

"At this time. That could change in an instant, though."

   

"Correct, but going by past interactions as well as today's most likely outcomes, it is extremely unlikely to." John pushed it back into its concealing holster. He could probably take a poncy bureaucrat like him out with his bare hands anyway. "Secondly, I wish to meet my niece." John froze at that. Of course Mycroft knew of the child's existence, contributed the entire nursery at her birth, in fact. But did he actually know of her scientific origin? "For Sherlock to meet his daughter," he continued. Apparently he did know. "You didn't really think you could keep your location a secret much longer, once I discovered who Mary really was, that, out of the three of you, she was the only one that had literally no genetic contribution to the child she carried."

   

"I... I don't want anything from you," he said warily. "Any of you."

   

"Of course you don't." Oceanic blue eyes traveled the length of what he could see of John's body. Of course Mycroft saw how the last bit of post military recovery weight he couldn't seem to lose even after constantly running around with his baby brother, had melted away, leaving only corded muscle in its wake. Being in hiding had apparently done him some good at least. "You have my word I will not attempt to take her from you at any time." That was really it, the worry. Besides the soul crushing exploit of trying not to bother Sherlock with the task of raising a child. That was extremely difficult in and of itself, but add his needs and lifestyle and it would be virtually impossible for him. And there was the fact of the baby's safety. Mycroft then said what was probably the one thing that could convince him. "Mummy and Father already know about her." John sighed in exasperation and finally stepped aside. Two more people that were probably going to hate him for keeping this secret. "They are delighted with both you and her and want you to be reassured they only wish to have contact with you both."

   

"They've... never even met me. They weren't even at Sherlock's funeral. Of course we know why now, but still." He absently took Mycroft's coat and ever-present umbrella to hang on hooks by the door.

   

"Sherlock wanted you found as soon as he'd returned to find you'd run off. He'd left it up to me." He claimed John's ancient overstuffed armchair as he seemed to do everything.

   

"Guess he didn't really think it urgent," John stated, only half joking and handing him a steaming cup of tea.

   

"Quite the contrary. He'd neglected to inform me of the probable reason you'd left and so I only had a few people on it. He'd interrogated them all every week. But when a year had passed he was... angry there had been so little progress made. That was when he gave me the jump-drive from which he'd been attempting to extract the corrupted files on his own." John thought he'd destroyed it, smashed it to bits under his boot, and with it, Mary's identity, therefore leaving no trace of the experiment she was a part of, how she'd been black-mailed by an unknown party who wanted to get to Sherlock through killing him. 

   

"See? Not that urgent." Mycroft pausing before using the word 'angry' indicated it may have been a gross understatement. "Still took about six more months."

   

"Again, you are incorrect. Your prowess notwithstanding, it took three days once he was given what he deemed 'the proper resources'. In order to motivate me further, he told Mummy and Father that there was a child, a girl, and her approximate age. The phone call I received as a result was very... loud." He extracted his phone and glanced at it with a sigh. "It seems I'm still not to hear the end of it until she-quote 'has that precious baby in her arms'-end quote." He'd read it off the screen before resting it on the chair arm still gripping it. It was the only indication that he was truly put out. "They have all been extremely insufferable about the whole thing. Sherlock has finally gotten most of his life back together and he should at least meet her."

   

"He's not... angry with me?"

   

"Logically, no."

   

"Logic has hardly anything to do with feelings."

   

"He is... upset." Regret welled up within John's chest once more.

   

"Yeah, see?"

   

"Only because he fears he has... hurt you."

   

"Hurt  _me_?" John sat down hard on the sofa, staring at the dance of the warming fire. Of course Sherlock had hurt him, left him alone so long that it was now impossible to be able to get back to him, back to the way things were. He'd forgiven him long ago, knowing that, no matter what, Sherlock did what he did for good reason. The consulting detective was much more  _Good_  than anyone would ever be able to appreciate. Anyone but John. 

   

"Because of the circumstances of the child's conception, he knows that you feel that returning would put all of you in danger, and that everything is his fault. He wants your forgiveness."

   

"It wasn't... like that. I mean, I thought it was for a while but then..."

   

"You and I know this, but he'll hear nothing but your forgiveness face to face." The tears came without his permission. Crying in front of Mycroft was the last thing John wanted to do. It felt much too weak. But Mycroft did something completely astounding then. He moved to John's side and rested a warm hand on John's back as he sat with his face buried in his hands to hide his grief. "Doctor Watson-"

   

"John," he corrected him, his words muffled by his hands. John then looked up into his face and it was lined with concern in such a way as he had never seen. "We're practically family now." Mycroft gave a curt nod of agreement.

   

"John... May I see her?" John gave a great heaving sigh, swiped his hands roughly over his face, and blew his nose before making use of the hand sanitizer. John stood as if preparing to face an inquisition and entered the small bedroom they shared. As before, she wasn't in the bed. Mycroft gave him a curious look and he couldn't help the little smile of pride as John pulled out his own mobile to text a happy face emoticon. Slowly, a panel, the hinges of which were hidden by the curtain of the window set deep into the logs, opened noiselessly and a giant dark eye crested with tousled curls not as dark as Sherlock's, cautiously peeked out.

   

"Daddy?"

   

"It's alright, Honeybee. We're safe. I'd like you to meet someone." She padded over on tiny, chubby feet, clad in her pyjamas, patterned with her nick-namesake, and stood slightly behind John. It was the only indication of her nerves, as she didn't clutch at her father's leg or turn her head away like most children did when being bashful. She was actually nothing resembling shy if there was something interesting to examine. She was her other father's daughter in more ways than one. It was completely silent but for the sounds of the water on the rocks below and the wind in the eaves. Then she stood her straightest, approached the strange man, and stuck her hand out.

   

"Good afternoon, Uncle Mycroft. My name is Willa Watson-Holmes, but Daddy calls me Honeybee. I'm glad to meet you." Mycroft's widened eyes were the icing on the cake. He raised his eyebrows to hide it and John witnessed the mask of decorum slip back into place before he took the child's little hand in his for a firm shake.

   

"I'm very glad to meet you as well."

   

"You didn't think I'd not tell her about the most important people to me on the planet, did you?"

   

"I'm... important to you." It was less a question and more as if he was trying it out.

   

"You're a bigger arse than your brother is, and that's saying something, but yes of course. You all may not have been physically present but I made sure you were in every other way possible. One of our few bags is full of dvds and pictures she demands to see constantly."

   

"Will you please pick me up, Uncle Mycroft? I want to examine your tie more closer."

   

"Closely," they corrected her absently in unison.

   

"More closely," she repeated, and John knew she'd remember from now on. Mycroft lifted her fluidly, taking in her every feature and no doubt comparing them to Sherlock's and his own. The hair was similar but a bit lighter with John's blond input. She had Sherlock's alabaster skin and she was lean and rather tall for a girl of three and a half. The almost cartoonishly sharp cheekbones of her other sire were hidden under the baby fat, but John took comfort in his contribution of her eyes, which were rather round and a cobalt blue. They were all John. They'd at first rolled their eyes and had a great laugh at Mary being teased in the lesser read gossip columns about just being a surrogate for Sherlock's and his laboratory-created gay baby. Strange how it turned out that was the most accurate assessment of the situation. Though John still didn't identify himself as gay. It was just Sherlock. He seemed to bust through every single wall, permeate every aspect of his being. And he made John not only like it, but  _crave_  it. It was part of what made the emptiness so compelling when he'd 'died'. 

   

"She will most likely get her height from Sherlock. Our genes are strong in her as is presented by her hair texture as well as the shape of her limbs. She looks," Mycroft cleared his throat, "remarkably as Sherlock did as a toddler." Was Mycroft Big Brother The British Government Holmes getting choked up over a small girl, one that reminded him of Sherlock no less? This was gold. He sighed then fixed John with a look that, from anyone else would have been pleading. "John, will you come home?"

   

"Well... can't have...  _Grand_ mummy upset, now, can we?" With a relieved nod he informed John that, as their few bags were already perpetually packed due to always having to be ready to go at a moment's notice, that he should gather anything he deemed otherwise important and get the child dressed. They were to meet everyone at their childhood home. "How did you- you know what? Never mind. Honeybee?"

   

"Yes, Daddy?" There was the slightest lisp. Sherlock struggled with one in his childhood. She was currently examining her uncle's green and black diagonally striped tie.

   

"Do you understand what's happening?" John had always explained everything as simply as he could to her, no matter how uncomfortable the topic. In turn he had a virtually fearless yet somehow extremely empathetic child.

   

"A bit," she answered truthfully, finally looking up at John and grinning with tiny teeth and large cheeks. "We're going to go see Papa!"

   

"Yes. That's it exactly."

   

"You shouldn't cry, daddy. Unless you have happy tears," she said matter-of-factly, causing another brief, surprised expression on Mycroft's face at which John just shrugged. Was it really unexpected that the child was naturally observant, that she possessed a vocabulary way beyond her years? That she held a the compassion of someone much more wisened? She literally got the best of them. "Put me down please, Uncle." Mycroft complied in a manner John had never seen before. John shook himself out of shock, out of the sudden flash of a three and a half year-old Sherlock ordering a nearly eleven year-old Mycroft about. It was... heartwarming. But, routine, wherever possible, was key in a situation such as this.

   

"Daddy or Papa today?" Jeans and a jumper, or a uniform-like skirt and jacket complete with button down top.

   

"This is important," she stressed, a serious crease to her little brow. "Uncle Mycroft."

   

"Well. Alright then." John heard Mycroft's unspoken question, but God forbid he admit he didn't know something. He waited for the answer to be revealed, which it was in the next moment when John pulled the only thing that was hung up out of the closet. A tiny three piece skirt suit complete with tie.

   

"I won't wear the tie, please," She declared. "I would look too much like Uncle Mycroft and I don't want Papa to argue with me."

   

"What exactly have you been telling her?" Mycroft asked incredulously as John began helping her change.

   

"You and Papa argue  _constantly," s_ he said in a near perfect imitation of the man standing there. The truth. Mycroft rolled his eyes just as his brother and niece did.

   

"What is on your chain?" He changed the subject quickly, indicating the thin silver necklace laden with small charms. 

   

"It's a brolly, dog tags, and, um, an anno... an... ana-tomic-ally correct human heart."

   

"John, Sherlock, and myself," Mycroft mused.

   

"Obviously." John had a difficult time hiding his smirk when he was about to chastise her for being rude. "I'm sorry, Daddy, but it really is." Then Mycroft...  _laughed_. To be fair, Willa was really fucking cute. Cute enough to melt The Iceman, apparently.

   

Mycroft left them so John could change into something more appropriate in which to experience his anticipatory terror. He didn't have much of a wardrobe anymore and had at first decided on the one nice suit he kept for whatever occasion might require one. He then figured, if he was going into this extremely uncomfortable situation, he was going to do it comfortably. He did put on his nicest dark denim jeans and shoes the color of darkly finished pine. A white button-up under his diamond patterned red and blue jumper that all women said brought out his eyes went on top. He adjusted his watch, that had a face that matched the baby's heart pendant, his only luxury item and stepped out after making sure everything was ready, just as a strange sound came into range. It was a far away rumble, but not an approaching storm. He instructed his daughter to sit as he went to the door to investigate.

   

"Have you ever ridden in a helicopter, Willa?" Her large eyes got impossibly bigger, shining with anticipatory glee. John secured her coat, a mini-version of her Papa's she demanded he have made as soon as she was old enough to form the words. John had to learn how to sew. Then he shrugged on his own overcoat, the comfortable Haversack that had always served him well, and sighed deeply, organizing his thoughts into how he meant to react to keep Willa feeling comfortable after depositing her into the chair Mycroft had vacated.

   

Just like that, control of it was taken from him. He and Mycroft watched from the door as the chopper landed neatly several yards away, whipping even his neatly clipped hair around. Then, gracefully but with all eagerness as the craft hadn't even set down fully yet, a long, lithe figure disembarked, walking quickly toward us. John couldn't move, couldn't breathe, could only clench and unclench his fists as the man came closer, seemingly not exclusively on his own power. A smaller, broader body hurried behind at nearly a run, silver where the former was black, stocky where the the first stretched for miles, and, John knew, though he couldn't immediately see, a bit olive skinned where the other was fair.

 

Sherlock halted a yard away, the helicopter's blades, having been silenced, turning lazily in the wind. Mycroft leaned down and explained that they would have to wait for the rushing air to die down before they could safely depart, and that it would probably be about an hour. Another person, a minion of some sort by the looks of it, began loading their things as they stood assessing each other for the first time in nearly four years. It was strange how John could still read them both like a book, Sherlock and the Detective Inspector who he was glad to see, though had no idea why he was there. 

 

Greg gave nervous, lop-sided grin and a little wave as he caught up. Outwardly, Sherlock seemed perfectly calm, steady, as if he was facing danger, but john knew he was worried to death. Behind Sherlock's blank mask was blatant fear, the kind of dread usually reserved for situations in which death was imminent but one hadn't yet resigned one's self to the fact. 

   

"Lestrade," he said, John's inwardly visceral reaction to his live voice nearly winded him with surprise. "If you could please see if-"

   

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, I'm fine."

   

"Then why do you look... horrified?"

   

"Probably because Mycroft here didn't tell him we'd be coming," Greg answered angrily. "This is a situation for which you'd need to prepare emotionally, Mycroft. My God, you really are off. Then again, look who I'm dealing with. It's... really good to see you, John. We were worried sick and when we found out about the baby... Sherlock, I won't be the first to hug your boyfriend after all this." That snapped him out of it a bit.

   

"In what world is he 'my boyfriend', Lestrade?" 

   

"The same world in which you can just look at him and tell what he had for breakfast two days ago."

   

"Over medium egg on wheat toast with brown sauce," he blurted. "However, I can do that with anyone so, following your logic, I must be quite the tart indeed." 

 

"Yes," Greg confirmed as if he hadn't heard the consulting nervous wreck. "This world. Now-" And just like that, their true feelings for each other were confirmed. It was an odd, floating feeling, now that the pressure of the big reveal was gone. John finally drew a breath and would have fallen over if he hadn't caught himself. Sherlock still kept his distance but took one step closer. John looked up into iridescent eyes that were searching his soul and filling unexpectedly. 

 

For a moment he thought Sherlock was going to at least touch his shoulder but he instead asked, "Would you feel comfortable inside? With me?" 

   

"You don't usually ask stupid questions, Sherlock," he said. Sherlock nodded once, then stepped deftly past him, entering the house and expecting them all to know to follow, which of course they did. It's what he did. Lead. Mycroft had, at some point, told Willa to go back into the bedroom and wait, so as not to overwhelm her already fragile father. Everyone just sort of stood around for a bit, looking at each other in silent tension. It was killing him. So John did the only thing he could think of to break the ice. Small talk. "You lot look really well." 

   

"Thanks," said Greg. "You-" Sherlock stepped toward John again, much closer than outside and Lestrade fell silent.

   

"Are you alright?" he asked, fathomless voice barely above a whisper.

   

"I'm fine, Sherlock. I'm sorry I worried you."

   

"Sorry you- What...?"

   

"I left as soon as I could to make sure we were all safe. I stayed gone to continue it and I also didn't want anyone to think I wanted your family fortune or to capitalize off of your name or anything. I was selfish, Sherlock."

   

"I don't..."

   

"I should have... given her up... when I found out. You... I knew you didn't actually want a child and you... you didn't actually want...  _me_."

   

"John, I-"

   

"But I wanted to keep a piece of you for myself, even if no one else knew it was. I knew you wouldn't have room for a... a child, that we wouldn't be safe in the same place all the time. So I left Baker Street. I hadn't any idea what to tell Mrs. Hudson but apparently you'd sorted that already. It was unsafe for us to stay. So, I wasn't trying to hide from Mycroft alone. I just knew if Mycroft knew anything about my whereabouts everything would come to light and I wouldn't be able to protect even this last bit of you." John's hand wanted badly to go to Sherlock's face. It was more careworn, his heart light damaged a bit from things John imagined he suffered while away, but it was still unequivocally  _Sherlock_. 

   

"If Mary's past caught up with her, then you had no reason to be able to trust that Mycroft could protect you and our child," he murmured, staying perfectly still, hands stuffed into his pockets then stepping much closer. John confirmed his words with a nod. "He would have, you know?"

   

"I do now," John admitted, voice thick with unspent tears. "But I was afraid. I couldn't risk the baby," A small sob that sounded almost like a laugh escaped him. "Or Mrs. Hudson, or Mycroft. So you see how none of it was you. You're not to blame for any of it because I'd just been given the only reason I had left to live. Until now." He was at last silent for an entire minute.     

 

"It's all been sorted." John's heart jumped a bit as he looked up at the taller man incredulously.

   

"S-sorted?"

   

"Yes. All the danger has been... neutralized."

   

"What do you mean 'neutralized'?"

   

"I will show you. If... you can find it in you to come back to London." John was astonished to think that he would actually just take what he could get from Sherlock, downgrade himself to exclusively platonic status if Sherlock would just admit he wanted him there. Then he leaned his high, pale forehead against John's and things went blissfully blank for a moment. "I am... sorry."

   

"Sherlock-"

   

"For everything you've been through. You should not have been alone."

   

"Alone is what I have," he said, parroting words Sherlock had once told him right before he 'died'. "Alone protects me."

   

"Friends protect people," he said, mirroring John's response at the time. With his eyes closed, John only felt his breath, hot against his own as their lips were slightly parted.

   

"Am I?" John asked quietly, afraid to move lest it break the spell. "Your friend, I mean."

   

"I'm yours," he replied. Finally,  _finally_  lush, exaggeratedly shaped lips were on his, warm and soft. They held for a moment just transferring energy, then they moved. Three long, soft kisses, tears mingling between them.

   

"I had to go."

   

"I know," Sherlock whispered into his mouth. "Me, too." He suddenly stepped back, cleared his throat and straightened his suit jacket. John took his cue and reigned everything in as much as he could. It was difficult, to say the least. It helped that Mycroft and Greg were looking around almost uncomfortably with strange, tiny smiles on their faces. John then grabbed the detective inspector in a bear hug, apologising profusely, Greg saying that of course he understood, he just wished people would talk to him before disappearing. John swore that it would never again happen if he could help it and they squeezed then released each other.

   

Willa sat almost primly on the bed, in her little coat, lightly swinging her little feet. John asked her if she was ready after informing her that they had to wait a little while longer to go meet her grandparents. She nodded hard, black coils bouncing, smiling widely. A knock sounded and the door opened.

   

"I was going to bring her-"

   

"We all agreed a private introduction was in order first," Sherlock said, never taking his eyes off of the child. John couldn't argue with the logic. Their little affectionate display probably embarrassed him beyond measure. There was no telling the emotions Willa would invoke. Sherlock shut the door and moved in front of the little one, back straight, hands clasped behind it in a painfully familiar way. Then he squatted, cleared his throat and looked straight into large, darker eyes. "Hello. I am your father... Your... other father..."

   

"Hello, Papa."

   

"Are you... are you well?"

   

"Yes, sir."

   

"Good. That's... that's good." She then put little chubby arms around Sherlock's swan-like neck, one she'd inherited. The man hesitated at first, but a moment later his arms ascended, wrapping themselves around the small form and squeezing. He buried a noble nose in hair that retained the vestiges of infancy and inhaled, closing those eyes. The lump in John's throat returned at the scene, Sherlock sitting back, clutching the child to him. When he pulled back to look into her face again, Willa placed a sweet kiss on his prominent cheekbone. "What... erm... What is your name?"

   

"Willa Watson-Holmes."

   

"Sh... you're named for me." He seemed awestruck.

   

"But Daddy calls me Honeybee."

   

"Of course he does. A perfect nickname for Papa and Daddy's sweet treasure." He'd never heard Sherlock speak this way. Not even when he feigned affection. It was a certain quality of his tone. All at once, he fully understood where the term 'ring of truth' originated as well as the phrase, 'words have power'. If this was a smitten Sherlock Holmes, then John tore himself apart inwardly for not doing it sooner. He had little problem sacrificing his own happiness. If he'd been alone then this probably wouldn't have taken place. But he wasn't alone, and he had unwittingly sacrificed this-this pure joy and comfort-for the two people he loved most in the world. It was a physical pain in his chest. "W-would you like me to... to carry you?" Sherlock asked awkwardly.

   

"I can walk, thank you." John shrugged at Sherlock's rather panicked, questioning look. John could tell he was already wondering why she didn't like him anymore all of a sudden and was this normal behaviour for her. Willa was pretty independent as far as getting around went, her pushchair more of a rolling storage unit, impromptu napping quarters, and exercise equipment since she first attempted to learn walking. She comforted her Papa immediately by slipping her tiny hand into Sherlock's to be lead out of the room, pausing only to let John open the door for them first. She released Sherlock's hand in order to approach Lestrade on her own.

   

"God, John," the argent-crowned DI nearly gasped. Lifting her to nuzzle her face in a manner that looked much more rough than it actually was. Greg was an old hat with kids, with three of his own. "She's gorgeous!" Her delighted giggle warmed the room more than the fire.

   

"She's called Willa," Sherlock blurted, taking copious mental notes about what Lestrade was doing to make her sound so happy. "She's named for me." 

 

"Is that so?" Greg grinned crookedly at her as he gave her a tickle. "Wait, what? Willa?"

 

"It's a female form of William," Sherlock sniffed, concealing his awkwardness with arrogance. Those magnificent eyes darted around as if they couldn't deign to settle anywhere for any duration.

 

"So... your legal name is William?"

 

"Well, it's better than  _Lestrade_!"

 

"For the last time, Lestrade is my  _surname_. My  _name_  is Greg!" Suddenly a tiny authoritative voice sounded above the din.

 

"Calm yourself, young lady!" In the instant silence, she adjusted herself in Uncle Greg's arms as if sitting on a throne. If she'd had flowing skirts, she would have been haughtily arranging them. She calmly addressed the rabble. "No arguments," she commanded, waving a chubby, authoritative index finger. "We have to make the best of the situation. Even ones we don't like." 

 

John lead the laughter brigade with a high-pitched, nigh uncontrollable giggle. The rolling thunder of Sherlock's chuckle joined in, then the other men blended into the mirthful four-part harmony. He had to laugh, as he was sick to death of the opposite, the sorrow and loneliness. His own words, necessary for dealing with even only half a Holmes rang true. She was also half him and he knew he could out-stubborn Sherlock when necessary. Their 'sweet treasure' would have no trouble at all.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right so... here's some more fluff and angst and smut.

 

 

After a rousing discussion about her silver chain, they were informed that it was now calm enough to travel. First stop, The Holmes childhood estate. Sherlock refused to release the child the entire time, Willa unexpectedly allowing herself to be carried until they reached the field before the front door of the manor. Nor would he be more than an inch away from John, mostly laying a free hand on what he could. 

   

It looked like a country cottage the size of a sprawling mansion. Sherlock was concerned for a moment that the littlest Holmes would be restrained around his grandparents. John assured him Willa had been wanting this since she could express it. She would do just the right thing.

   

Goosebumps and more bloody tears dominated John's body, as the over-excited girl tried her level best to keep from wriggling in her Papa's lap but couldn't quite manage. It was a task to get her to wait for the helicopter to land properly before trying to jump out. They were a ways from the front door in terms of a toddler's legs and so they convinced her that Sherlock should carry her most of the way as his legs were longer and could get her there more quickly. She pouted, an expression so like her beloved Papa's they all had another laugh. Sherlock took steps John and Greg had to practically jog to keep up with. Mycroft took his time, giving the man with the bags some final instructions. 

   

When they were  _finally_  a few yards away, Willa began her wriggling once more, Sherlock warning her to stop before she was dropped, though all involved knew it would never happen. The child complied only until she was being set down, little feet moving even before they touched the path leading up to the open front door in front of which stood an exquisite white-haired couple, both tall and exuding adoration as their pipe dream realized barreled toward them, calling out.

   

"Grandmummy! Grandfather!" she bellowed at least three times until she reached them, both reaching out to receive her. She ran into Sherlock's mother's arms and was lifted into the tightly layered embrace of both grandparents.

   

"I never thought I'd hear those words," she was sobbing. It made John feel even more like shit to have kept this from them, even if it was for everyone's own good.

   

"Stop it," Sherlock's voice was low in his left ear. "You were doing what you knew of as being right."

   

"But-"

   

"Sh." He briefly lay his jaw against John's temple then walked forward, hand at the small of John's back. His prominent eyebrows raised up into the curls on his forehead at the feel of John's trusty Browning in it's standard place. John only had time for a quick grin before wiping his face, and tried his best to gather words and carriage at least adequate for the occasion. By the time the proud grandparents were reached by the adults, Willa had been passed to her grandfather and Violet Vernet Holmes stood with her hands clasped in front of her, every bit as stately as her sons. It's where they got it from.

   

"Mr, and Mrs. Holmes, I just-"

   

"Mummy and Father and I'll hear nothing else unless you're introducing us to someone," she commanded. Definitely passed that to her boys as well. "Same goes for you, Greg Lestrade," she called over John's right shoulder. "You are family and we Holmes' look after our own. Now come and embrace me you lovely, brilliant man." He looked over at Sherlock, speechless with the grand acceptance. A tiny nod and even smaller smile encouraged him to do as she said, even if he hadn't been planning on following her every word to the letter. He heartily shook Father's hand and, with a kiss for Mummy and a handshake for her husband from Lestrade, they were ushered inside.

   

It was as cozy and homespun as it looked on the outside, the decor and overwhelming air of simplicity making it seem much smaller than it was, but in a warm, familial way. By the time they reached one of several sitting rooms (the library, judging by the thousands of volumes lining the walls three storeys high)Willa was perched on her grandfather's knee, nibbling primly on a biscuit and, between swallowing bites, so she wouldn't talk with her mouth full, was relaying the story of her necklace yet again, but in full this time. She told her rapt listeners about how no matter what happened, where they went or who with they could or could not engage, she was loved by everyone represented. She'd memorized that, in case of emergency, she was to contact Sherlock Holmes and say 'Vatican Cameos', as "Papa may not pay attention to a child trying to contact him." That earned Sherlock an icy stare from everyone in the room except John, who could only smile proudly. There was no time to be angry over Sherlock's idiosyncrasies when trying to keep their daughter safe and John said so after a moment. Sherlock seemed surprised that he did, sat closer to his father than he probably had since he was a boy himself with John firmly at his right so that their thighs pressed up against each other. John couldn't blame him. He himself had to be able to touch them both at any time at the moment, too. 

   

Speaking of those strange things inherent to Sherlock, he was examining Willa closely as the child chattered happily. She allowed her father to look at her hands and facial features without interrupting her speech. John would exchange little smiles with Greg and the entire scene was almost domestic. Almost because of the underlying tension of unanswered questions such as, how long they were staying, what would happen when they got back to Baker Street, where Willa and John would sleep for sure once they did. He wasn't going to assume he would be with Sherlock and Willa would have his old room for her own. True, she'd graduated to her own little toddler bed but she'd still climb into his most mornings if there was time for extra sleep to be had. John's nightmares only came if he was alone in bed now.

   

The elder Holmeses cooed over her little outfit and laughed over her no-tie explanation even through giving the two men in question dirty looks about the fact that even a girl who was practically an infant knew they should get along better. From the little John saw of their exchanges they actually did. Mycroft indicated that there had to be a discussion regarding their future and it seemed to be a code phrase, for his parents rose and started to leave the room to the panicked expressions of John and Sherlock both.

   

"You have my word, remember, John," Mycroft reminded him. He nodded stiffly, he and Sherlock each receiving a sweet kiss for their trouble. Sherlock looked back and forth between his brother and John but stayed quiet. John knew he was just now noticing the shift in his brother's relationship with John. "Now, as to the child's future-"

   

"Wait no," John said. "She's not going to a boarding school no matter how prominent it is. If she's going to have 'connections' they'll be of her own personality's making. I'm sure you could arrange a playdate with little Prince George in a couple of years or something." The only difference in Mycroft's countenance was his raised eyebrows. "We're supposed to be family, but don't think I need to be financially dependent on you. I would make use of your connections, however to make sure she and Sherlock are safe and I don't give a fuck what you may have to say against it." He was deathly quiet, assessing John's every bodily twitch. Sherlock and Lestrade were snickering like schoolboys.

   

"What are your demands?" Mycroft asked finally.

   

"A list of private tutors with thorough background checks and all of their relevant information for me to choose from." It wasn't a verbal protest, just a minuscule nudge of John's left thigh. "Sorry. Used to making all of the decisions. Of course they'll go through Sherlock and I  _after_  the background checks. I get information on everyone we interact with on a regular basis, with random background checks on anyone else, even if we stop at a lunch truck. That means business papers, employees personal lives, everything until I'm satisfied. If you even look at me like I'm being too paranoid, then you can go fuck yourself, Mycroft Holmes, because my number one priority is keeping my family safe at any cost." The other two were outright laughing now despite knowing John was dead serious. 

   

"Are you trusting me, then?"

   

"No. I'm hoping. I'm hoping that you'll keep your word, because I can't imagine I'll be in a fit psychological state to stand trial for what I may do if they're threatened." John's eyes narrowed of their own accord. 

   

"Your conditions are completely understandable as well as acceptable. If you lost your peace of mind, I'm sure we would all suffer greatly." John bluntly nodded once. "There are six weeks left in the renovation of Baker Street to accommodate our new addition as well as bolster your confidence a bit in the security measures being taken. Until such time as they are complete, you may stay here or at a hotel in London if you can't bear to be away for any longer."

   

"I, uh..." He wasn't prepared for that, but, they did know about the child and it was just like the two of them to assume he'd return. Who was he kidding? Somewhere, deep down, he also assumed he'd return somehow. "You'll have to ask your brother about that." The man in question had calmed down by now, Greg still chuckling and wiping his eyes. 

   

"You'll have your own rooms here of course. Mummy has had a room ready for Little Willa since she first heard of her existence. I'm sure Mummy and Father are already up there," he mentioned. Strangely, without a word, Sherlock gestured the direction in which John was to precede him out of the room. Once out, he took the lead and Greg began asking him questions one usually asks about a child in which they have an interest, especially with children of their own. John wasn't a pediatric specialist, but he'd sure treated enough children in the various war zones in order to qualify if he'd really wanted to retrain. Oddly enough, it took very little fear away from frantic two a.m. calls to hotlines as they were hardly ever in one place long enough to establish a regular pediatrician. Not to mention the fact that they were in hiding. A lucky side effect of his former military and university days was the fact that he had places around the world in which to hide out, doctors and lawyers and survivalists and everything in between to see to it she never missed a shot or wellness check-up regardless of knowing her only as 'John's Doe'. A play on a combination of the title of an unidentified man and a female deer.

   

Sherlock radiated that same overwhelmed new-parent vibe by barely restraining the nerves in his voice as he asked if those were the kinds of questions that needed to be asked and if he should be asking questions, too. Then he went on to ask questions anyway as they slowly climbed two staircases and passed several heavy-looking wooden doors with a dark finish. John saw one open at the end of the hall, the voices coming from it distinctly Willa and her grandparents happily conversing on the merits of alphabet blocks. John shook Greg's hand, thanking him for his concern and turned to Sherlock who caught him off guard with an unidentifiable look. Then he figured it out. 

   

"Lestrade, your room is right here." Sherlock opened the door in front of which they stood without taking his eyes off of John's as the latter man fought to hold in a smile. 

   

"Right. I'm going to go and, uh, freshen up. See you in a bit, yeah?" Sherlock didn't reply.

   

"Yeah, Greg. We'll see you in a little while," John answered, smiling at the DI. Greg ducked into the room and gently shut the door. Sherlock didn't move. John got up on the balls of his feet to take his chances with another firm kiss on those lovely lips. Sherlock responded a moment later as if he didn't even mean to, but his body acted of its own free will, cradling John's face and holding it against his via the mouth. He followed him down as John flattened his stance once more. John let him be the one to end the kiss, which was done abruptly, walking off toward their daughter's room. John followed, stopping next to him at the door as the two beaming elders posed increasingly difficult spelling and mathematical questions to her. He caught the twitch of the corner of Sherlock's mouth before entering to check on everybody. Willa seemed content, as did the Holmes heads of household. After another instruction, John was shown to the adjoining room, the door shut firmly.  
   

As much as he seemed eager to get him alone, Sherlock only stood stiffly, watching him a moment before traversing to the window around the side of the massive four poster bed that had to have been in the family for centuries.

   

"Why are you content to touch me when we're around other people but not by ourselves?" John had to ask.

   

"I... w-I figured you'd feel safer."

   

"You're really being dumb now, Sherlock. I never expected it of you." He whipped around to face him but remained where he was. "I swear you didn't hurt me. Not really."

   

"So I  _did_  hurt you, then."

   

"No more than anyone would be hurt in the situation without having any information." John approached him very slowly, cautiously.

   

"But you don't... you're not hurt now?"

   

"No. I'm just sorry so much time was wasted." John could hardly breathe for Sherlock's eyes on him in that soft manner, his ample brow furrowed as he concentrated. He fought the urge to cross his arms, allowing Sherlock to look his fill. "Your Work is going to be pissed you cheated." John briefly arched an eyebrow and kept from smiling at his joke by the skin of his teeth.

   

"This isn't funny, John."

   

"It is a bit."

   

"It's not!" He grabbed two fist fulls of black curls and sat hard on the side of the bed. John sighed and sucked his teeth, feeling a little guilty for joking around when the man was obviously so upset. "I... left you. I left you alone."

   

"You had your reasons. I made peace with that long ago. You didn't leave me to leave me, you left to protect me from something."

 

"He was going to have you killed. You, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson." John knew immediately, even after all this time, that 'he' was James Moriarty. "Unless he saw me die in shame, you would have been murdered. I... I couldn't let that happen."

   

"Of course not."

   

"I... hadn't any other choice," he said almost blankly. 

   

"Well see? There you are. I mean following your logic, it sort of makes me partially to blame for the time you were gone because-"

   

"Don't say that!" He was immediately animated, turning toward John. "That's ridiculous."

   

"Not any more ridiculous than saying you hurt me for no reason."

   

"You had to stay with your wife and unborn child, so I couldn't have you come with me."

   

"You saw how that turned out."

   

"I did." John sighed, angry at the potential re-emergence of tears currently clogging his throat. He tried to clear them away. 

   

"I tend to break a lot of rules for you, Sherlock. You're more important to this world than I am."

   

"That's stupid."

   

"Okay what purpose did I serve? Before Willa, I mean?" Sherlock sighed deeply. Emotions exhausted him. "I married and had a child on the way because I thought that's what normal people did. Mary was actually the one that helped me get to this point. She helped me see a lot of things about you and about myself that I just couldn't, because, when I began a relationship with her, I was walking around with my eyes half shut most of the time, just... going through the motions of a normal life. She made me see that we have to make our own normal in order to be happy, in order to be a whole person."

   

"In this endeavor," he began, running another agitated hand through his hair as John absently stroked the back of his right hand which was now flat on the bed, "I found allies in the most unexpected places. Or rather I saw the... the emotional truth rather than just fact. You were there. All the time. No matter how cruel I was to you, no matter how much trouble you got into because of me, no matter how you worried and shouted, you never left. Not permanently."

   

"Despite your carefully formulated words, you shouldn't be alone." 

   

"You're infinitely more logical about my experiments than you let on." John shrugged at that. "You, Lestrade, and I hate to say, Mycroft have  _literally_  bled for me and the fact that you did it sometimes just to help satisfy a curiosity at a random time around the flat isn't any less important than doing it as a result of injuries sustained in helping me. Molly repeatedly risked life as she knew it and it was no less a sacrifice than being physically out in the field."

   

"You needed me. I wasn't useful for anything else. I was a rubbish husband, pining after you so secretly, apparently I didn't even know I was."

   

"If you don't stop talking about yourself like that-"

   

"Like what? Like I was basically a sentient meat suit just waiting for my turn to die? Because that's what I was after you... left."

   

"Please." It was almost a whisper and John froze for a moment. "You weren't just meat. You cared. You loved me. I took advantage of that as I always do, but I didn't know it was going to be that way. You shouldn't have allowed it. My friendship, I mean. You shouldn't have allowed it, but you did and it shouldn't... it shouldn't have been like that."

   

"It was fine. I was fine." John felt a tentative finger brush his hip. "We were all fine and we all missed you terribly and tried to make things right."

   

"Yes yes you all...  _care_." His tone was dour but the look Sherlock gave him was heartbreaking. "It just shouldn't have been like that," he repeated. "I should have taken you with me."

 

"And Willa?"

 

"Mycroft would have kept her safe." John's heart smiled at the faith Sherlock always had in his big brother, despite the constant bickering. Better was the same Mycroft had in him and, strangely, in John. Yes, the ex Army doctor had been a stalwart companion and caregiver from the first, but there was a certain ease of his rather freckled countenance when John was around. Probably because he was the only person in the world that could get the excitable man to calm down long enough to explain himself sometimes. "I had no idea what impact my absence would have until I returned and you were... gone. I couldn't even look for you myself because.... Damn it!" His hands went back into his hair and John eased them down again, passing his thumbs over their backs. It seemed to sooth him into being able to continue. "It was horrible and aching and I couldn't... function. It was missing, do you understand?"

   

"Yes," he answered without hesitation, despite the vague description of feelings. "Mostly how I felt except for needing to be there for Willa. That was a bit of peace at least." He fully grasped Sherlock's hand then. "I wish you could have seen her as a newborn. Photos just don't do her any justice. She was this perfect, tiny thing..."

 

"Still is," Sherlock said, then looked off to the left a moment, trying to figure out where that came from. John drew his eyes back to his with a gentle hand to his chin. To Sherlock's surprise, his slightly puzzled frown was kissed, and then his lips. "Please," he said, accepting another kiss, "Tell me if you want to stop. I know you're not used to doing this with another male and-" John cut him off with a proper deep kiss, pushing his arms around Sherlock's torso and once again allowed him control over it. Sherlock laid them back, pushing his tongue lightly into John's mouth and sighing when he yielded without effort. "Tonight," he murmured, his caress on the side of John's military-precise ashen blond head overwhelmingly affectionate. 

 

John had little to no interest in sex after Sherlock Fell. He tried a few times, only able to get his partner off. One doesn't acquire the moniker 'Three Continents Watson' without having learned a few tricks that kept them coming back for more. But Sherlock somehow made his insides burn with a simple kiss or a look. Of course he had a libido, but all the pain and heartache to get off became no longer worth it... except for with him. 

   

"It'll sort itself," John said truthfully. "It apparently always does."

   

"It does at that," Sherlock agreed, peppering his jaw with little presses of the lips. "But, no. Just..." He pulled them upright again, panting a bit. "There's no time to do anything properly right now. We have to go slowly."

 

"Whatever you want." Sherlock moved his hand over John's for a moment then left the room. John sighed then followed suit.

 

 

 

Supper was a lively affair during which everything else was discussed. There were apparently many family events planned now that they were finally there and properly together. Even Sherlock and Mycroft's snide remarks were fewer in the presence of the new addition. Sherlock kept at least a finger, or the side of his shoe in contact with John at all times. Nothing so blatant as putting his arm around or kissing him in front of everyone as when they first reunited, but it was noticed all the same, by everyone, who tactfully remained silent about it.

   

Sherlock was incorporated into Willa's bedtime routine, her Papa staying a bit longer with her after lights out. John emerged from a luxurious bath to a freshly showered and dressing gown clad Sherlock, the familiar blue one that did things to his already remarkable eyes. John had been provided with a brand new matching one in a deeper blue, which flowed silkily, sliding pleasantly over his skin as he moved toward the other part of his heart.

   

"Frankly I'm surprised you let me bathe alone," John teased because of Sherlock's recent (welcome) propensity to keep in constant physical contact. He just stared. "Thank you for the dressing gown and... well everything."

   

"This was all my mother's doing," he said airily.

   

"Mycroft informed me that isn't entirely true."

   

"Mycroft can't keep his mouth shut because he's afraid he'll miss a wandering cake."

   

"Be nice, Sherlock." He scoffed, striding over to the plush arm chair that was positioned to look out the window and used it for its intended purpose. For about three seconds.

   

"What for?" He was pacing again, agitated.

   

"What's wrong?" He halted then spun to face John with what was at first that familiar assessing look.

   

"I can't... be without you." John's heart ached for his openly confused expression. "Did you know that?"

   

"Okay," was all John could manage in his astonishment.

   

"It was preposterous!" He continued pacing. "I... I had no idea where you were and it made me... doubt things. I was afraid."

   

"I was fine. Mostly."

   

"Yes, well..." He sat again with a frustrated sigh. "I'm rubbish at this."

   

"Sentiment? Well, if a toddler can understand how you feel-"

   

"She's advanced," Sherlock argued, drawing John in front of him then between his knees by the wrist, then seeming not to know what to do with him, so he settled for fingering John's dressing gown sleeve. The fact that Sherlock's knees were bare when he opened his legs to admit him was not lost on this new John, the one allowed to ogle openly. John reflexively began to card through inky curls, still slightly damp.

   

"So are you. An extremely advanced toddler." He received the expected eye roll as he planted a light kiss on Sherlock's forehead.  

   

"Not at this. If I say the wrong thing-"

  

"You do that all the time and I usually correct you, don't I?"

   

"Yes, but this is important. It's not something that can be forgiven if done incorrectly."

   

"They're only words, Sherlock. This is me. It's okay." He searched John's face for a lie and, satisfied that there wasn't one, inhaled deeply to speak.

   

"Come here," He stood up, then maneuvered John into the seat. He then folded his lanky frame onto its knees and rested his chin on John's right knee, staring up at him in the most distractingly innocent fashion. The head-petting seemed to help him gather his thoughts. He closed his eyes and pushed on as if he was a child valiantly taking foul-tasting medicine. "I spoke with Lestrade about it briefly, and he helped me reach the conclusion that the only way I'll be able to let you out of my sight now is if you agree to marry me."

   

"I'm sorry, what?" He opened his eyes at John's question and the cessation of his head rub.

   

"It's the only solution that will satisfy everything."

   

"I... I didn't think you were... the marrying type."

   

"I'm not. I didn't think I was. But when it comes to you... You're not the only one who is breaking self-imposed rules. I'll never be what you deserve. I'm selfish and possessive and it would be more for my own benefit. Also, it would benefit you and Willa legally and socially, though you care almost as little about those things as I do. They are, however, useful things to legitimately have." John purposefully controlled his breathing, his heart trying to escape its bone cage as Sherlock's mouth ran non-stop. It may have sounded like an 'or else' to those untrained in Sherlockian, but he wouldn't have taken Willa and there was absolutely nothing worse that could be done, in John's estimation. He had nothing else to lose. "If you don't wish to marry me I understand completely," he went on. "I would never try to take Willa from you but I wouldn't be able to see you ever again. You could still maintain contact with everyone else and I know you'd try to make it so I could see her regularly, but I would not be able to handle you being there and not completely mine."

   

"And you call yourself selfish." John's voice shook.

   

"It is selfish to have you all or nothing."

   

"It's how good relationships work."

   

"Oh." They stared at each other for a moment. "It will be difficult."

   

"Yes because every day with you in the past has been a walk in the park. I'm sure we'll manage." John couldn't stop smiling about how mad this all was, how so very  _Them._  "Besides," he added, "what worth having isn't difficult?" 

   

"I... you'll have to... help me."

   

"That's my job, isn't it?"

   

"It's settled then."

   

"I guess it is," John said, then bent down as Sherlock leaned up for a brief kiss. The man on the floor held him there, their lips pressed together, for a long moment.

   

"Oh! I've been informed that usually a token of betrothal is given to the bride to be," Sherlock said getting fluidly to his feet. John recoiled as if startled and bolted to standing himself.

   

"Usually, yeah. But I wasn't expecting this so forgive me for not having one for you." John swore he saw the gears in his head turning through those cat-like eyes.

 

"But... I'm... not the... bride."

 

"Neither am I." Finally, Sherlock understood and dismissed it completely for being too simple for him to pay any further attention to.

   

"Well, I've taken the liberty of purchasing these. We'll have them anyway or I'd never hear the end of it from my parents or Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade. It would be a bigger nightmare than having informed Lestrade of my decision to ask was." He reached into the pocket of his dressing gown as John gaped over how much Sherlock had gotten done in such a short period of time. He was positive he hadn't been in that tub for  _that_  long. Of course, with Sherlock's propensity toward experimenting with memory manipulating chemicals, one couldn't rightfully be certain. It was a wooden ring box, carved intricately with what looked like perhaps lilies, but weren't quite right to be. Inside, nestled in what had to be a silk pillow were a pair of rings that espoused simplicity and glamour. They should have been gaudy and cumbersome but they weren't somehow. The bands were silver, probably platinum if Sherlock was the purchaser, and each had a discreet notch, and were etched with the likeness of a plant. The one that was obviously John's was immediately recognizable as a thistle, referencing John's Scottish blood. Sherlock's matched the carving on the box.

 

"Honeysuckle. Of course it is," John grinned.        

 

"These were made by my great great grandfather on my mother's side, from materials found whilst traveling in Africa. It's said to have a spell on it, that controls who may wear it. Ridiculous really but, it is said that rings made from it are only to be worn by people in a true partnership. The jewelry made from it is never to be re-sized, nor has it ever been. I checked the history of it when I was told the story. The enchantment dictates it must fit whomever it is given to at the time of the betrothal without having to be re-sized. That person is with whom you are supposed to be for the rest of your days." He slid it onto John's finger, holding his hand up to the light. 

   

"Wh-what if it didn't fit?" John was overwhelmed with sentiment. He hadn't cried this much since after Sherlock, and now it seemed anything could set him off, no matter how cute or romantic it actually was.

   

"It was always going to. I'd already known your size before I asked for a piece of the platinum."

   

"You... you planned this?"

   

"No! I planned none of this! Nevertheless it happened and one must... adapt." John nodded in agreement and leaned up to kiss him as sweetly as he could muster. His wistful look dissolved once more into slight uncertainty. Showing on his face at all meant a deep, internal perplexity. "You... you never actually said yes."

   

"Seriously?" John's eyelids grew a bit heavy with playful chagrin.

   

"Yes, seriously."

   

"So I have to officially say the words or it doesn't count?" He was just teasing at this point and felt an abiding guilt at Sherlock's near panicked expression.

   

"Will you just-"

   

"Yes!" He grabbed the tousled raven head in his hands. "Yes I accept your marriage proposal, you infuriating, beautiful man!" He nodded and sighed, allowing John to kiss his nose.

   

"You can do better than that," he said, referring to the kiss. John gave him a sideways glance, behaving as if he was puzzled.

   

"Right. I'll show you bride." Before he knew it, Sherlock was being lifted by his narrow waist. He was tossed easily onto the bed and kissed within an inch of his life. John soon found himself in a playful fight for dominance in which he equally challenged and pulled away, reminding Sherlock of his ability to take him down when and wherever it was necessary. When the passion got to a certain point, however, John was unsure of what to do and let Sherlock take control. 

 

"Tell me when to stop," Sherlock breathed into the skin of his neck, his words basting it before he went back for another taste. 

 

"Don't," he gasped, a little surprised at just how eager he was at the moment. Sherlock pulled his dressing gown wide open and set on the flesh available there.

 

"You have to tell me," he almost begged. "Or I won't be able to." John could say little else but his name as Sherlock swallowed his tumescence with an eager mouth. John could reach nothing but his arms and head, Sherlock's own throbbing erection kept out of his legs' range of motion though he could feel the whisper of Sherlock's leakage on them. "I want you to take me," he panted, kissing back up to John's mouth after bringing him to the brink several times in a short span. 

 

"I... what?" They never stopped kissing, not making the conversation awkward so much as forming the words. 

 

"I need you," he said. "Inside of me. God, John!" The way Sherlock said his name as he maneuvered the bedclothes out from under them, made it so John didn't realize they were quite suddenly naked. Sherlock had apparently been preparing himself the whole time, fervently kissing him as he was held close. John smeared a bit of the magically appearing lube onto his fingers in order to stroke his lover as he finished up, then was yanked onto him, pressing as much of their skin together as possible. His body made undulating motions, designed to keep them wet and on edge for hours, but knew John could only take a few minutes before he reached a dexterous hand down between them to guide John in.

 

"Oh God. So good. So perfect," he moaned hotly, being clutched by Sherlock inside and out. "Are..." He had to take a moment to gather his thoughts before retrying the question. "Alright?"

 

"Fine. Just... adjusting," he retorted in a voice that John felt more than heard. "It's been... a while." The rumble and thud against his chest, the heat of his skin against skin, how he wrapped those long legs tightly about John's hips, it was nearly too much to bear. Until a single roll of his hips drew a high-pitched noise from him that would have been conducive to a bride indeed. Conversely, Sherlock's sound was delicious, sharp, dark and smokey, like scotch mixed with molten chocolate. "You can move now, John," he informed him bossily, but John was trying to make sure he wouldn't immediately fall apart as soon as he did so. It would have been embarrassing. However Sherlock is as Sherlock does and, as he went to protest again, John countered with a slow circle that turned his haughty words to a garbled mess from which only 'I love you' and 'oh god yes' and some sort of swear were discernible. 

 

"I won't last," he warned, afraid he was holding Sherlock too tightly to breathe and attempting to slow down. The little menace just sped up, adding an intermittent muscle squeeze that had them practically screaming into each other's mouths with his release as a result of his cock being massaged between their stomachs. Sherlock's pulsing after shocks, set John off a moment later, satisfied that he hadn't broken his streak of pleasing his lover first. Sherlock lightly pushed him to his side so he could get at their smeared fluid on John's belly with that abnormally clever tongue. He worked his nipples mercilessly with both oral and manual manipulation. John was awash in sensation and somehow, Sherlock managed to stop just shy of over-sensitivity as he moved about his beloved's body, shamelessly tasting and sucking and biting and touching. John realized he was being cataloged and, once his exact spots were quickly found and managed with just the right amount of moisture and pressure, John's refractory period went from ten to non-existent in less than thirty seconds. A minute after that, Sherlock was sinking down onto him for round two.

 

The first time, they were holding each other so close that John didn't get the opportunity to see the magnificence that was an aroused Sherlock Holmes. It was very close to when he was just about to solve a locked room serial murder. In his face, at least. John hadn't any idea if this was what, in some measure, was going on with the rest of his body, the strawberries and cream skin, his scars, old and new, standing out further, his lean muscles taught, his chest expanding and contracting with his breath as he sat there on John, holding his eyes hostage... it was devastating. 

 

They ran their hands all over each other's bodies, smearing the beads of sweat that had continuously to cropped up as they concentrated on their joining. Sherlock began with the muscle exercises, not moving his hips at all until they were both grunting because John had suddenly remembered anatomy and used those slim hips to tilt him to just the right angle. He then began thrusting upwards, using a few undulations of his own to keep close contact with Sherlock's prostate, guarantee the continuance of the amusing mewling sounds the man known for his deep voice was making. John would speed then slow, see what other noises he could pull from him. They were many and varied, his favourite probably his name repeated over and over in the most broken of voices when Sherlock was close to his orgasm. A few strokes yanked him over the edge before John took his pleasure a second time, the fading, most encouraging words from Sherlock begging him to look at him this time, look into his eyes as he came inside him. John could barely get his eyes to stay open, let alone focus when it washed over him, and all Sherlock did was shower him with praise for how he looked, coming because of him.

 

They kissed until their mouths ached, then still just rested them against each other as they lay side by side, breathing with with their eyes closed, well on their way to sleep. Except that Sherlock began humming a melody. It didn't exactly keep John up, but he was curious and told himself to attempt to remember to ask him about it in the morning.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is kind of short I know. But the fluff! The angst! The more fluff!

 

 

Waking with his face buried in the pretty, dark, slightly sweaty coils of his baby girl in a strange place wasn't anything new to John. Being naked but for a pair of pants instead of in night time attire that could double as daytime attire in case they had to move quickly, was. The slight ache of his muscles being pleasant and the feeling that he could possibly sleep for hours yet was completely different. 

 

He'd been blessed with a happy child, one who would smile most of the time, even in her sleep. Today she awoke grinning with tiny white teeth and patting him on the cheek.

 

"Good morning, Daddy."

 

"Good morning, Honeybee."

 

"Another night safe," she said per route. It was a little bit heartbreaking, but their reality, nevertheless. John suddenly had a hazy yet exceedingly joyful memory of the point at which Willa climbed into bed with them, squirming her way into the middle and fitting perfectly.

 

"Yes," he said finally. "Another night safe." Sealing it with a kiss to her brow, john rolled onto his back for a stretch and nearly jumped out of his skin, simultaneously bundling Willa most of the way to the floor on the other side of the bed before registering that it was Sherlock, sitting in the arm chair which he had turned to face the bed rather than the window. He was dressed as usual, his white button up flawless, black jacket and trousers a second skin. 

 

"I didn't mean to startle you," he said softly. John loosened his hold on the girl and her head popped up with a grin.

 

"It's only Papa," she said, squirming to get away so she could climb over her Daddy in order to go to him. John reluctantly let her, heart still racing, even though he knew it was perfectly safe. He took slow breaths, calmed a lot more quickly by the sight of Willa crawling into Sherlock's lap without reservation and Sherlock, without reservation or taking his eyes off of John, accepting her as if he'd been doing it the whole time, planting a kiss among the curls he'd given the child.

 

"I'm hiding from the wedding-hungry beasts. I'm almost positive they've bought out the local shops of anything wedding related." John smiled a bit at that.

 

"Wait! What time is it?"

 

"Half noon." He bolted upright, clenching the covers in his fists.

 

"Twelve-thirty? Why didn't anyone wake me?"

 

"Because it was obviously the first time you felt safe enough to properly rest in a long time. Everyone in this house understands that. You're up now, however, and I'm told there's to be a grand spread for lunch. I'm sure you're hungry."

 

"Yes, Papa. I'm very hungry," Willa offered by way of her own opinion. 

 

"Don't worry, John. She and I raided the fridge when she awoke in the wee hours." John still wasn't sure whether or not to stay worried that he hadn't gotten up to give his child breakfast for the first time in what was practically her entire life. "We had porridge with local honey and wheat toast." John breathed out in relief, trying to keep the reaction more neutral as he didn't want to put Sherlock off of parenting. There was time enough for that if Willa ever got a cold in front of him or, God forbid, injured herself. 

 

"Papa let me put the chocolate on the toast." There it was, that familiar stress storm after the quiet of placation. John hadn't missed that at all. Well... Perhaps a bit. 

 

"Sherlock, you shouldn't give a little child-"

 

"It was only Nutella and she only had a bit."

 

"Papa only ate toast," Willa chimed in, examining her Papa's lapel.

 

"You're not helping," Sherlock scolded with a grim countenance as he knew his own scolding from John was imminent. Willa looked him square in the eyes for a moment, the room utterly silent, before reaching up and gently squeezing Sherlock's nose between her little thumb and forefinger. 

 

The noise it made when manipulated thus was a resounding, " _Honk._ " 

 

John completely lost it as Sherlock looked as offended as he possibly could, which was saying something given how dramatic he was in general. He sputtered and stuttered and 'Well, I never'd in a most Mycroftian manner until it turned into blowing raspberries on the little girl's neck in retribution and she was as red faced with laughter as her Daddy was. John pretended the tears that emerged were solely from the laughter, and not the unbelievably touching scene of Sherlock playing with their baby. 

_Their Baby._

 

"Now," Sherlock said sharply, signaling the end of playtime, "I'll get your father out of bed and we shall get you two dressed. Why don't you look in the wardrobe drawers in your room and fetch something to wear."

 

"Yes, sir." Her legs were going before she was set down again, in her usual manner, and she bolted off through the adjoining door.

 

"Then again," Sherlock said after, making his way onto the small section of bed to John's right for a dulcet kiss, "I'm sure the others would be more than glad to occupy her for a bit. There's still some time before lunch is served..." The next kiss quickly became almost too much as he laid John back.

 

"You are an absolute menace, Sherlock Holmes," John murmured, staring at his face and running his hand tenderly along the side of it.

 

"I tried to tell you," he said innocently. "But you've seen fit not to listen and wed me anyway.  _I_  wash my hands of the situation. It can't be stopped. You're mine now." They kissed again.

 

"I was always yours, Sherlock."

 

"And apparently I was always yours." John blinked at him, not really surprised. For Sherlock, to fall in love was the most inconvenient thing ever to happen to anyone. John understood. He really did. But it still hurt a little.

 

"Do try to contain your excitement about it." John pat his jaw rather hard and gently shoved him up and off.

 

"What have I said this time?" Sherlock sighed, of course knowing his heart. That  _was_  a bit convenient when he didn't feel it warranted discussion. It was how Sherlock was and he loved him for all of his parts. Even the annoying ones. Sometimes, especially the annoying ones.

 

"Nothing," John fibbed, standing up and looking around for his dressing gown with his hands on his hips. It wasn't where it had been tossed the night before. He then thought of the fact that he didn't really know where that was as he was otherwise occupied at the time.

 

"You always have that particular little frown when you're irritated with me. I'm glad I'm now allowed to find it adorable, but nonetheless, I dislike seeing it. So, what social faux-pas have I committed? If you won't tell me, you must rid yourself of that expression immediately." John had walked very slowly around to the foot of the bed, casting his eyes about the room.

 

"It's not really anything, I promise. I just... would prefer it if you weren't so annoyed by being in love with me." He glanced quickly over at his fiance(?!)who stood in one of his usual poses, his hands clasped behind his back. Sometimes he'd lean forward just a bit in order to properly loom, but that was usually reserved for flirting and intimidation for cases.

 

"Love  _is_  annoying, John! It gets in the way of logic and clear thinking. Most people haven't any to spare in that department, yet they seek love against all reason. It's absurd!"

 

"Is it?" John wasn't getting any less irritated. "It's absurd to want some human contact that means something?"

 

"Of course it is! The divorce statistics alone..." John finally turned to face him squarely. Sherlock's imperious look faltered a moment, his face softening in the wake of John's unhappy moue and defensive body language. "But our union won't end that way."

 

"Won't it?"

 

"Nooo!" Sherlock stepped a little closer. "Our partnership, like all great partnerships, is based on knowledge of self and each other."

 

"So our being in love is... logical?" 

 

"Logical sentiment? I tell you, John, I don't usually go for psychology that hasn't much to do with psychopaths-"

 

"And false self-diagnosis."

 

"That has yet to be determined. But that sounds like an interesting study..." Sherlock went into his jacket pocket for his notebook, holding the dressing gown hostage with the same hand that held the little pad. His appearance of scientific interest poorly masking the utter cheek in his near-smile.  

 

"Give," John demanded, accompanied by the appropriate gesture. 

 

"I'm enjoying it where it is at the moment," he smirked. Two could play at that game. Without another thought, John went through with gathering what he needed, avoiding looking, but feeling Sherlock watching so very intently. John made especially sure to look underneath things, with his arse, clothed only in thin cotton material, pointed directly at his lover. He had to get around him to reach the chair on which his jeans were laying, just happening to brush his hand over Sherlock's hip or crotch. John kept it up until, finally, Sherlock turned his head away and thrust the dressing gown at him. He didn't want to leave, just was apparently not having as easy a time as he thought he would, resisting John's form. John accused him of being embarrassed. Sherlock informed him, that at bedtime, he would show John in no uncertain terms how embarrassed he was. He would in fact be showing John for the whole of the day, as soon as he got his sexy little arse in gear. John had to pause then.

 

"No pretending, Sherlock," he begged. "No exaggerating. No unrealistic public persona. Not for this. It's just... not for this, okay?"

 

"Not even a half truth," he promised. "Now hurry up! Her Highness is bellowing for a royal dresser."

 

"I know it feels weird," John started, "with a child and all, but-" Sherlock quieted him with a soft kiss. Lingering long enough for them to put their arms securely around each other.

 

"If it wasn't for love, we wouldn't have found each other. We wouldn't have this, now. I would never not want this. Truth be told, I never thought I could have it. Especially after Mary." They gazed at each other and Sherlock pressed his lips to John's forehead and held him closely for a moment. "I suppose this means I owe love a debt, if for no other reason than it keeps us in business." John closed his eyes and sighed, awash once again in that brilliant combination of irritation and pure love that permeated every aspect of their relationship. He went on his way with a light smack to Sherlock's backside, as his husband-to-be went to deal with the little one so John could wash and dress.

 

True to his word, he didn't overdo it, as he did when pretending with others that John had seen. The only indication anything had changed between them now, was the fact that he openly sought John's touch and that of the child they shared. After explaining to Willa what was going on, that they were to be married, they went down to the delicious smells of lunch being served, taking each other's hand and Willa allowing herself to be carried by Papa("It's much higher when Papa carries me"). 

 

Everyone was gathered in the sitting room as Mrs...   _Mummy_  deigned to actually let the small staff they kept, as they were elderly and it was rather a large place, cook the meal. They all stared expectantly, trying their best to keep quiet, lest they somehow miss the announcement. Mrs. Hudson had even joined them, in order to give her a bit of a holiday from her sister whilst Baker Street went through its transformation.

 

"I sincerely hope you all approve," was all John said before thrusting out their hands to the excitement of all. The three of them were hugged and kissed within an inch of their lives and lunch took several hours between the planning, discussion, and celebratory nips of champagne. An outing on which to gather materials was planned for the next day. Mummy apparently had many phone calls to make and, by nights end, they'd received dozens of congratulatory messages. 

 

There were maybe a hundred more before they even left the house the next day, and many more as they walked around, Sherlock visually attempting to control his pride as he promenaded his fiance and child in the sights of many who swore he would die alone and very young... probably at one of their hands if not one of their animals, or as a result of an experiment gone wrong. They certainly didn't think he'd find someone who cared nothing for anything he could offer them personally, but who he was. John was extremely surprised to encounter, in this rather close knit farming community, extremely little prejudice out loud and even less in the form of sideways glances and head shakes when it came to their both being men. 

 

Even those were diminished significantly enough by Willa's pure light. She got all sorts of attention anyway for her personality alone, but add the Holmes resemblance and name and apparently there wasn't enough that could be done to please her. Apparently the Holmes family had once owned the entire area, but kept relinquishing bits of it to people that had served them, local businesses and other community facilities. They were the closest to royalty most of these people ever got for generations, some members actual royalty if one went far enough into their history. Sherlock didn't care for a title himself, though he apparently maintained one, unbeknownst to most, but his offspring was to be recognized as much as possible as the leader of men she would no doubt be. John told Sherlock, not until she was at least twenty-five. She would probably be mature enough to handle it then. Sherlock gave him that annoying ' _we'll talk about this later because you're wrong and I haven't the time just now to explain how_ ' look. At least he was honouring his promise not to fake his behaviour.

 

Sherlock would steal kisses, backing John up against a wall in a secluded area and kissing him breathless before leading him back into the fray. The problem with sex, Sherlock had explained in a low voice as his parents were occupied with their daughter, was that the more one had it, the more one wanted it. At one point, they had managed to go just short of an orgasm and struggled to compose themselves before rejoining the group. All seemed fine until the doting grandparents agreed that, when it came to child-rearing, parents needed to have a proper rest sometimes to keep their batteries charged. They volunteered to take the littlest Holmes back to town after breakfast the next day and encourage everyone else to accompany them. All day.

 

Sherlock looked annoyed but John caught the last minute blush. His own face, however, was on fire.


End file.
